I’m not real. This isn’t real. Nothing actually exists if logic stops logicking, and I sleep alone, therefore, what even am I?
“Turn off the cow,” a lady-voice groans. “Make the mooing stop.”
Mooing? “It’s a merma-potamus,” I mumble, but I don’t know if I said that out loud.
Out loud.
Motor.
Hiss.
Cluck.
Cricket.
Wine.
Cricket.
Cricket.
Oh,shiiiiiiiitttt.
Thisisreal.
Idoexist.
But what the hell did we do last night?
“Wake up,” I try to say, but my mouth is full of glue and Lav painted sandcastles on my eyelids and the cat is sprawled across my forehead hissing at something and I might have just farted instead of talking.
Shiiiiiitttagain.
I finally make my mouth work for real. “Wake up.”
“Wake—oh my god!”
It’s the shriek splitting my skull that fully pulls me all the way to my senses.
And bysenses, I mean into full awareness of my body, which is less flesh and bone and more a blob of aches and pains and horror and regret.
And the smallest bit of hope that if we’re in bed together, we finally did something about the way I don’t hate her at all, which is instantly followed by shame that I’d even think that I hope we had sex while we were both drunk.
I groan with the effort of prying my eyes open.
And then with a bunch of fumbling to push my cat off my head.
And what I see makes me instantly squeeze my eyelids back together. “Why are you so bright?” I moan to Cricket.
Her shirt.
Holy fuck, her shirt. It’s every neon color under the sun, all smashed together in a tie-dye design so ugly that I understand now why we found boxes and boxes of them in the gift shop when we went exploring.
They’re atrocious.
Even aliens from the planet GaudyTieDye wouldn’t wear them.
“Why am I not wearing pants?” she shrieks.
